


You and I conspire and split the ground

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Family Dynamics, Gen, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12063480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: Grandfather's boots are next, soft and worn where Father's are always polished to gleaming, and then Grandfather's hands, and then his face. He looks tired, under his beard, under his crown, but he is smiling when he reaches under the bed to her."My sister Daella used hide under her bed with her dollies, when we were small," he says, his voice very quiet and very gentle. "Will you come out, poppet? Your grandmother and I would like to speak with you a little, if we may."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PanBoleyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/gifts), [tywinning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tywinning/gifts).



> This is not what I intended on posting tonight, like, at all.
> 
> Title from "Flammable" by Biffy Clyro.
> 
> Part two to follow in the next few days! #teamrhaella

Rhaella hides under her bed when there is thunder. She has done this for as long as she can remember, gathering her dollies close and scurrying into the too-small-for-Aerys space under her bed when the skies crack.

She hides there now, too, while Father shouts and laughs like a mad man, convinced that yes, finally, here is proof that he and Mother were right when they defied Grandfather!

Rhaella wishes her parents had done as they were told, because then she could be Mother's daughter, safe in Highgarden, and Father and Aerys would be far away in King's Landing. But they did not, and so she is here, and Father thinks to marry her to Aerys because Uncle Duncan's Jenny's woodswitch says he ought.

Rhaella does not wish to marry Aerys. Aerys pinches her and pulls her hair, and has wanted to lay claim to her all their lives, even though he says he loves Joanna. Aerys wishes to lay claim to  _ everything,  _ because he says that since he is to be King, someday, everything is his to claim. Father never tells him otherwise, nor Mother, and while both their grandparents would be sure to tell him to mind his tongue, Grandfather is always busy, and Mother tries to keep them away from Grandmother when she can.

Grandfather, now, is apparently not so busy as usual, because his voice joins in the shouting in the sitting room outside her bedchamber - he is much louder than Father, sturdier even in his voice, and plainly furious. The only other time Rhaella heard him shout so was... 

No, she cannot remember a single instance. Gods be good, is he angry with her? She hopes not. She loves her grandparents very much, and the idea of Grandfather being in a temper with her makes her already turned stomach twist with fear.

_ Please, please,  _ she prays, clutching her dollies closer,  _ please protect me from them all. _

Her bedchamber door swings open carefully, and the rustle of skirts is not at all what she expected - likely it is Mother, come to tell her to stop being a baby, to tell her that she must insist to Grandfather that she wishes to marry Aerys.

"Rhaella?" comes Grandmother's voice instead. "Sweetling, where are you hiding?"

Grandfather's boots are next, soft and worn where Father's are always polished to gleaming, and then Grandfather's hands, and then his face. He looks tired, under his beard, under his crown, but he is smiling when he reaches under the bed to her.

"My sister Daella used hide under her bed with her dollies, when we were small," he says, his voice very quiet and very gentle. "Will you come out, poppet? Your grandmother and I would like to speak with you a little, if we may."

Rhaella takes his hand, tucking both her dollies under one arm, and lets him help her out from under the bed, lets him and Grandmother fuss over her and set her hair and skirts to rights.

"I don't want to marry Aerys," she blurts out without meaning to. "Please, Grandfather,  _ please _ Your Grace, tell Father no,  _ please!" _

Grandmother gathers her close, and Grandfather bends to press a kiss to her brow, his face as severe as his own father's, in the portrait in grand-aunt Rhae's solar on Tarth.

"All will be well, sweetling," he promises, and Grandfather  _ never  _ breaks his promises. "Betha, if you would-"

"Of course, my love," Grandmother says, lifting a hand from Rhaella's hair to touch Grandfather's face, before returning it to Rhaella's shoulder. "Come with me, little love, you can stay with me a time. Would you like that?"

Rhaella nods so hard she thinks her head might fall off, and Grandmother gets the door of the sitting room closed behind them just as Father begins shouting again.

 

* * *

"If I am not to marry Aerys," Rhaella says, two weeks later, while breaking her fast with her grandparents. "If- If I am not to be Aerys' wife, who am I to wed?"

"Well," Grandmother says, nudging the pot of gooseberry jam over the table to Grandfather, who has been pawing at the table with one hand while reading the reports he holds in the other, "you are only one-and-ten, sweetling. There is plenty of time for that yet."

Rhaella secretly thinks that there is not so much time as Grandmother might like her to believe, since she must wed high indeed, and there are few enough men of suitable rank for her to wed. The heir to the Hightower is too young, the heir to Highgarden the same, probably, and Rhaella knows well enough that Tywin would never have her for a wife, no more than Steffon would. 

So, where is she to look? 

"I had half a mind," Grandfather says, trying to both hold his toasted bread and spread it with jam with the same hand, "to host a tourney, my little one - would you like that?"

Rhaella hesitates, afraid as she always was with Father to voice an opinion, but Grandmother smiles. Grandmother only smiles when there is nothing that can go wrong.

"Will I be made to sit with Aerys?" she asks. "It is only that, well, my lady mother has made it clear that she thinks me unfilial and cruel for denying him my hand, and Aerys so hates being denied things-"

"Aerys must learn," Grandfather says, trying to dab pale jam off his deep blue velvet cuff, "to accept being denied things. You will sit with your grandmother and I, and your aunt Rhaelle, if she can come."

In the royal box! Father sometimes sits in the royal box, but Rhaella and Aerys are never allowed - Mother and Father think them too ill-behaved, and while that may be true for Aerys it certainly is not for Rhaella, who only cries and makes noise when Aerys is unkind.

"I promise I won't misbehave," she says, because not only will she be sitting in the royal box, Aunt Rhaelle will be there! Mother and Father don't like Aunt Rhaelle, and they  _ say  _ that it is because she acts as though she is high-and-mighty. Rhaella thinks it is because Aunt Rhaelle, who was sold off to quiet Lord Baratheon after Uncle Duncan betrayed Grandfather's oath, and Father and Mother did the same, makes them feel guilty for having been so selfish as to run away and risk more discord after the mess Uncle Duncan made. 

Rhaella has only met Aunt Rhaelle a handful of times, but she likes her enormously - she is very much like Grandmother, from her slow smile to her beautiful dark hair and eyes. She thinks that sitting in the royal box, with Grandfather and Grandmother and Aunt Rhaelle for company, sounds like an absolutely splendid time.

But not so splendid that Rhaella forgets that she must still wed. 

 

* * *

Aunt Rhaelle arrives riding a horse draped in black silk, edged in cloth-of-gold, and her gown is to match - gold lace set into the black damask neckline, which even with the lace is scandalously revealing, so much so that Rhaella wonders at Lord Ormund allowing her to wear it, until she remembers Mother saying that Aunt Rhaelle is  _ wilful, and brash, just like Black bloody Betha.  _

Rhaella thinks she looks terribly brave and daring, and decides immediately to like her very much,  _ especially _ if Aunt Rhaelle is as much like Grandmother as Mother always insists.

“Hello, Papa,” Aunt Rhaelle calls cheerfully, swinging to her feet and throwing herself into Grandfather’s waiting embrace. “You look very well, don’t you? Mother’s been making you eat breakfast again, I see.”

“I’ve missed you as well, little egg,” Grandfather says, rolling his eyes and kissing Aunt Rhaelle’s temple. “Come, I’ve a new favourite, you’d best meet her.”

Rhaella’s heart swells at that, because Grandfather means  _ she’s  _ his new favourite! Oh! She’s never been anyone’s favourite before!

Aunt Rhaelle is smiling when she crouches enough to look Rhaella straight in the eye - she’s tall and strong, like Grandfather, but Rhaella’s small and slight like Grandmother, and she’s only one-and-ten, anyway. Aunt Rhaelle’s eyes are dark like Grandmother’s, but they shine with mischief, like Grandfather’s, or like Uncle Duncan’s, when Grandfather isn’t about.

“So  _ you’re  _ the little love Mother has written about,” Aunt Rhaelle says, cupping Rhaella’s cheek in her long-fingered hand. “Let me promise you something, sweetling - by the time I’m done with your fool parents, there shan’t be another word about marrying you to your brother, I promise you that.”

Lord Ormund’s shadow hides Rhaella and Rhaelle both for a moment, and were it not for his quiet smile and warm blue eyes, for the way he and Grandfather clasp wrists, Rhaella would be frightened, because he is so  _ big. _

“I don’t know what my lady is promising, Princess,” he says, bowing as low to Rhaella as he did to Grandfather, “but I shall stand over it on her behalf, should the need arise.”

Grandfather is smiling when he wraps an arm around Rhaella’s shoulders, the fierce sort of smile he saves for fighting with people, and she thinks she understands. Aunt Rhaelle has always been his favourite, and that is part of why he brought her to court for this - but Aunt Rhaelle has always been the thing Rhaella’s parents fear most, too, and the regard in which Lord Ormund holds her is notorious at court.

Grandfather is seeking out champions for her, to keep her from Aerys. Rhaella hopes only to be worthy of such effort.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly later than planned, but here we are!

Rhaelle has never in her life knocked on Shaera’s door, and she sees no reason to change that habit now.

Even if it has been years since she stood in Shaera’s rooms. What is a decade between sisters, after all?

“Hello, sister,” she calls merrily as the door slams back against the wall, sending Shaera’s clutch of dowdily dressed ladies scattering and shrieking. “What a pleasant day it is!”

Shaera’s ladies look suitably scandalised when Rhaelle stomps in, still in her riding clothes - her boots click loud on the bare flagstones of the floor, and she’s fully aware of the muck and dust clinging to her skirts and her cloak. She hopes that it bothers Shaera as much as it does her ladies, if only because she’s more likely to get an honest answer out of Shaera if her sister has lost her temper than otherwise.

“It was, yes,” Shaera says, mild as milk. “You would do well to seek out your own rooms, little sister - I am sure our lady mother is eager to see you.”

“Oh, I’ve seen Mother already,” Rhaelle says, waving a dismissive hand as she takes the seat nearest Shaera. “And Papa, and your little Rhaella - what a charming child! Is she always so sweet?”

Shaera’s smile is rigid, shameful in the same way as her smile during the dinner Mother hosted to honour Shaera and Jaehaerys’ marriage - not that they’d left her and Papa with much choice. Shaera has always been good at smiling through outrageous circumstance, and it’s almost a comfort to see that that, at least, has not changed.

“She is a very pleasant-tempered child.”

“Much more so than your boy,” Rhaelle presses on. “My Steffon says that your Aerys is  _ quite  _ the little bully-”

“Leave us, ladies!” Shaera says, shriller even than Rhaelle remembers, and the thin fury on her face when the door closes is  _ precisely  _ as Rhaelle remembers. “How  _ dare  _ you-”

“How dare  _ you,” _ Rhaelle hisses, leaning in close - she’s bigger than Shaera has ever been, tall and broad and strong and much,  _ much  _ angrier. “Have you not inflicted enough pain on Mother and Papa? Have you not shamed yourself enough without forcing this nightmare on your own  _ daughter?” _

“It is no nightmare-”

“You who screamed the city down when denied a marriage for  _ love _ ,” Rhaelle sneers, “you would force your own child into a marriage she fears so much that even I, who has never had the pleasure of knowing her until today, can see it?”

“She will birth a line of heroes-”

“She will be a wreck for the rest of her days, sister, and you know it. You know what that whelp you and Jaehaerys bred is. He might have charmed all those little lickspittles and fools about court, but I can see him for true. I can see  _ you _ in him, Shaera.”

Shaera is so  _ sweet  _ and gentle and  _ kind _ and delicate. Shaera is also greedy and selfish and cruel when she thinks no one can see. She has always been so, and Rhaelle does not imagine that it has changed.

“Papa will not stand for it,” she says, “Mother will not stand for it, Ormund and I will not stand for it - I will send for Duncan and Uncle Aemon, if needs be, and we will  _ all  _ stand against you.”

“Aerys and Rhaella are mine and Jaehaerys’ children,” Shaera fumes, “you have no say-”

“I will find a decent husband for her and steal her away to safety, if that’s what it takes,” Rhaelle warns Shaera, sad for what might have been between them, had Shaera only seen the sense of Papa’s plans. “I will not allow you to do this to her, Shaera. I will not allow you to betray her as you did me.”

 

* * *

“Little love? Are you well?”

Betha can see well enough that Rhaella is far from well, but it takes a great deal of coaxing to tease the truth out of her little granddaughter, and gentle coaxing at that. For all that Rhaella is Shaera’s image, she has none of Shaera’s strong will or stubborn pride.

Who is there in all of Westeros who could possibly be gentle enough for Rhaella? She had once worried that there would be no one in all of Westeros who could handle Rhaelle’s light without stifling her, and had been thrilled when Ormund Baratheon had proven himself a better man than any other Betha knew. How is she to find such a match for Rhaella, who flits and folds like a butterfly’s wing, perfectly lovely and terrifyingly breakable?

“Aunt Rhaelle can’t fight against Mother,” Rhaella says, “not over me. I know she said that Lord Ormund won’t be put down, but Father is  _ Prince of Dragonstone. _ ”

“And your grandfather is King, Rhaella,” Betha reminds her, guiding Rhaella to sit beside her. “He and I made you a promise, and we won’t see it broken.”

Aegon has never broken a promise to Betha, not in all the time she’s known him - Duncan and Jaehaerys and Shaera and Daeron broke Aegon’s promises, that their children would see worthy marriages that could bring peace to the realm as Aegon’s uncles’ marriages would have, had they not all died or been fools, that their children would not marry one another.

Duncan and Daeron were fools for love, Jaehaerys and Shaera tangled up in sin and selfishness so tightly that they forced Aegon’s hand, and broke Betha’s hand. The boys at least were sorry, sorry enough to give up the throne and to give up the splendour of a prince’s life for that of a warrior-

Gods be kind, how she misses Daeron. Her laughing lad, so bright and golden and  _ lost. _

But Jaehaerys and Shaera were never ashamed. They never cared that they had made it so their own mother could no longer look them in the eye, that it had been impossible for Betha to take any joy in the births of her grandchildren - she takes joy in little Rhaella  _ now,  _ of course, but Aerys is everything she feared would result of her son fucking a child into his sister, and the thought of him wearing Aegon’s crown turns her stomach.

“Not even if Father insists?” Rhaella begs, and Betha draws her close as tears begin to spill down Rhaella’s pale cheeks. “Please, Grandmother,  _ please-” _

 

* * *

“I did not think you would invite so many guests,” Rhaelle says, reading over the guest list with her feet crossed on the edge of Aegon’s desk. She’s hunted out a pair of dusty old leathers and is wearing her husband’s tunic, and with her hair bundled up in a tangled nest atop her head, she’s the image of her mother. “Nor such a  _ variety  _ of them.”

“Best meet as many boys as we can,” he points out, watching her over the top of the stupid bloody reports on the treasury that he ought to be reading. “How else are we to find a nice one for Rhaella?”

“I don’t think it’s a nice boy we need to find for her,” Rhaelle says. “ _ I  _ needed a nice boy, because I was a hellion, and we struck lucky with Ormund - there isn’t a nicer man in Westeros, yourself included.”

“You flatter me, little egg,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Go on, then, daughter, what do we need to find for Rhaella? Surprise me with your insight.”

“We need to find the most cunning,  _ mean _ boy in the realm,” Rhaelle says, “and we need to make sure he’s completely besotted with Rhaella, so that he turns all that meanness against  _ Aerys.” _

“And for Aerys, then?” he asks, because Jaehaerys has been clamouring on about finding a wife for his son, since Rhaella has been denied them.  _ Who is equal to a princess? No matter what girl he’s given, it won’t be the same! _ “What kind of girl should we find for him, do you think?”

“One who can endure him long enough to get a son out of him,” Rhaelle says, cold and hard, and when Aegon looks her in the eye there is nothing of Betha there - she is all him. 

He lets the unspoken conclusion of her plan hang in the air a moment. Lets it linger.

“That’s treason, my girl,” Aegon says quietly. “He’s second in line for the throne.”

“And so I should excuse him for  _ already  _ being an abominable bully and a horrible little bastard, just like his mother?” Rhaelle asks, setting aside the list and dropping her feet so she can lean over the desk toward him. She has Betha’s eyes and hair and nose and mouth, but that square jaw and those hard shoulders are all Maekar Targaryen, and Aegon feels his father’s absence like a kick in the gut, as he only does near Rhaelle and Aemon. “If it keeps Rhaella and all the other little girls like her safe from Aerys, I’ll wield the blade myself. I’d do it a thousand times over, Papa, to spare the girls of this realm the fate that might have been mine, had Ormund not been the man he is.”

 

* * *

Rhaelle settles into Ormund’s hold as he spins her about the floor, laughing simply for the joy of being close to him. 

“We ought to give our boy a brother,” she teases, fitting herself tighter to him when he snorts against his terrible laugh. “Well, we could at least make the attempt-”

“If you would, Lord Baratheon.”

They draw to a halt - and draw every eye in the hall - when Jaehaerys appears beside them, hand out for Rhaelle to take. Behind closed doors, she isn’t above causing a scene, but to do so now would shame Mother and Papa, so she removes herself from Ormund and takes Jaehaerys’ hand.

“Don’t forget our plans, my lord,” she tells Ormund, just to see him smile and blush, before turning to her brother. “Brother, to what do I owe this dubious honour?”

Jaehaerys is more honestly charming than Shaera, for all his frailty - Rhaelle’s shoulders are broader than his, her back straighter, her arms stronger - but he is weak-spirited in a way none of their siblings are. Duncan and Daemon were stronger than anyone Rhaelle has ever known, to so openly defy Papa, and Shaera’s brazenness is a strength of its own, but Jaehaerys has always followed where Shaera leads - which means he is here on her orders. 

“I wonder, little sister,” he says, his smile not wavering even though his eyes are cold, “if you had anything to do with  _ that.” _

At his nod, Rhaelle looks back over her shoulder, and finds herself laughing again.

Duncan’s hair is gone almost all grey, even though he’s only five-and-thirty, and he looks terribly like Papa. She wonders which of them would be more annoyed by the comparison, and realises that it doesn’t matter - because on Duncan’s arm is his Jenny, and her presence in King’s Landing will annoy Shaera so much that no one else will have  _ time _ to be annoyed.

She leaves Jaehaerys in the middle of the floor, dashing over to greet Duncan - her favourite brother, because by his sins, he brought her Ormund, and before that he used bring her fresh peaches even after Mother told her not to eat more before dinner - and laughing more when he darts forward to sweep her into an embrace that sweeps her clean from the floor.

He is her favourite for being so much taller than her, too - the only one with their grandfather Maekar’s powerful build, according to Papa - and he takes her face in his hands when he sets her down, and presses a kiss to her brow.

“Surely this cannot be Father’s little egg?” he demands, dark eyes shining with mirth. “How long has it been, Rhaelle?”

“Too long,” she promises him. “Now, fetch your wife, and I shall fetch my husband, and we all shall go to Mother and Papa, and we’ll have a lovely evening.”

“I was told the children would be here,” Duncan says, holding out a hand behind him and smiling down at pretty, pretty Jenny, who even now, with laughter lines around her eyes and mouth, reminds Rhaelle of a dark tulip newly blooming, with her long, slender frame, and her magnificent tumble of deep red curls. “Your lad, and the others’ two.”

“Cup bearers,” Rhaelle says, smiling up to Ormund when he takes her hand and tucks it into his elbow. “Come, come, let’s laugh together so Shaera can start seething properly.”

“Now, egg,” Duncan chides, and that sends her off into gales of genuine laughter - and Ormund and Jenny and, yes, even Duncan join her, and when they turn to greet Mother and Papa, Shaera is red in the face and Jaehaerys looks uncomfortable as only he can.

_ Let them hurt little Rhaella now,  _ Rhaelle thinks.  _ Let them damn well try. _

 

* * *

“Tell me, Father,” Duncan says, leaning over the table just as Rhaelle had only days before. “Is it true? That Jaehaerys and Shaera meant to force their children on one another?”

“They still mean to,” Aegon says, “for the  _ prophecy  _ of your wife’s witch.”

“I would have kept her away, had I known what harm her words would do,” Duncan says, solemn as the grave - Aegon misses the lad Duncan was, before it all went arse over elbow, and it still stings to see the boy who once reminded him of his shining, startling mother be so quiet and serious. “Father, I-”

“I know, lad,” he says. “For now, there’s naught to be done. All we can do is arrange to keep the little one away from the boy for as long as possible.”

“I’ve asked about both of them,” Duncan says. “Everyone likes Rhaella, which I expected, given how fond Rhaelle is of her, but I did not expect Aerys to be so popular. I don’t mean to condone forcing brother and sister to wed, but is he so terrible as everyone says?”

Aegon thinks of his own brothers, long gone but for Aemon, and sighs. He loved Daeron best, after Aemon, and Aerion not at all, but he is grateful to Aerion for opening his eyes to the truth of his grandson.

Little Rhaella is just as terrified of Aerys as Aegon was of Aerion, as a boy. It does not matter how charming and gregarious the court thinks Aerys is, it does not matter that he gathers friends to him like a Lannister gathers coin - rot will out. It always does.

“Your mother and I found Rhaella hiding under her bed, crying into her dolly’s hair,” he says. “She was so afraid of being married to Aerys that she wouldn’t let your mother out of her sight for days, as if she thought Jaehaerys was going to steal her away and force her to a sept right that moment. I won’t see her married off to Aerys. I  _ won’t. _ ”

 

* * *

The grand tourney finally takes place near two moon’s after Grandfather and Grandmother coaxed her from under her bed, six weeks since Aunt Rhaelle’s arrival, a month since Uncle Duncan’s.

Rhaella has a new dress, in soft, deep purple samite, with full skirts and snowy lace underskirts, and she has a halfcape of silvery satin over it to cover her bare arms. She feels very grown up, and when Grandmother presents her maids with a delicate coronet of silver filigree and pale amethysts to set into her hair, she feels  _ beautiful. _

“We’ll find you the finest husband in Westeros, little love,” Grandmother promises her. “You see if we don’t.”

Lord Ormund and Uncle Duncan both offer her their arms when she arrives in Grandfather’s study with Grandmother, but Grandfather pushes them both aside with a good-natured huff and takes her hand. Grandmother takes her other hand, and together they lead her out of the castle to the carriage waiting for them outside.

Aerys is with Mother and Father, dressed in red and black and scowling, and his whole face goes red when Rhaella steps into the front carriage with Grandmother and Grandfather.

The tourney grounds are near two miles outside the city, and Grandfather sneaks her candied lemon the whole way, biting down on smiles whenever Grandmother shoots him suspicious glares. Rhaella has never been happier, knowing that Aunt Rhaella and Uncle Duncan are close behind, with Lord Ormund and Lady Jenny and Steffon, and that they will keep Aerys away from her.

Steffon sits on the bench beside her, in the royal box, and Grandmother plants a huge bowl of cherries before them with a wink. She sits right behind Rhaella, Grandfather behind Steffon, and the others are all arrayed around - Mother and Father and Aerys are in a  _ different  _ box, with the small council. 

“Who do you think you will marry?” Steffon whispers, collecting cherry pits in his left hand and plucking fresh cherries from the bowl with his right. “Mother wants to find you someone who’ll fight with Aerys if he’s being difficult.”

“Grandmother wants to find someone gentle, who won’t want to live at court,” Rhaella whispers back. “Do you know anyone who might fit?”

 

* * *

It is only after the first day of competition, when the melée is done and the order for the next day’s jousting has been posted, that Betha has her epiphany.

Rhaella takes off ahead of them, hurling herself into Loreza Martell’s waiting arms and chattering like a squirrel, laughing and laughing and going quiet and pink when she notices that Loreza is not alone.

“This is my son, Rhaella,” the Princess of Dorne is saying when Betha and Aegon reach them. “Doran, introduce yourself to the Princess, sweetling.”

The boy, Doran, is slim as a reed, with an unremarkable if pleasant face, and fascinating eyes - as dark as Betha’s own, but bright with an intelligence that makes Betha think of Aemon, away at the Wall. 

That unremarkable but pleasant face flushes just as hard as Rhaella’s, when they greet one another, and Betha thinks,  _ oh, thank the gods. _

“The Princess will be quite safe with me, if you care to leave her be, Your Graces,” Princess Loreza says, looking baffled but pleased by the way her lad and Rhaella are stammering at one another. “I shall return her to you at dinner, if that suits Your Graces?”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Aegon says, grinning wider than Betha has seen since this whole mess began. “Although, my youngest daughter has expressed an interest in meeting you, if you are amenable?”

“Lady Baratheon? Of course. I would be honoured.”

Halfways back to their pavillion, Betha elbows him hard in the side.

“Rhaelle hasn’t expressed the  _ slightest  _ interest in speaking with Loreza Martell-”

“Not yet,” he agrees. “But the gods themselves won’t be able to stop her now.”

“You saw it too, then?”

“They’re only children,” he says, thoughtful, “but it’s a better start than any other I’ve seen recently. And…”

“And, my love?”

“And who better to defend Rhaella against a dragon,” Aegon says, “than a Prince of Dorne?”


	3. Chapter 3

Rhaella is beaming when she rides up to the Red Keep at her husband’s side, radiant as the moon and sun-browned and freckled. Aegon has been satisfied with the Martell boy for her since the thought first came to him and Betha, but to see Rhaella so healthy and so obviously happy does his heart good.

Doran Martell will never be as handsome as his wife is beautiful, but that may not be a bad thing. A plain husband with a lovely wife might be less inclined to stray.

“Oh, Grandmother,” Rhaella says - so bold compared to how she once was! She never would have dared greet Betha first, before she was removed entirely from her parents and brother’s reach. “I have so much to tell you!”

Her belly is round enough to show even under her soft Dornish style gown, and the bright fall of her hair over the deep purple gown makes him think of his sisters, who were like him and Aemon, with their father’s silver hair and their mother’s brown skin. Rhaella’s a pale little thing even in adulthood, Aegon’s Dayne colouring muted by Betha’s Blackwood fairness, but there’s something of his long-lost and much-missed mother in the thrilled brightness of her eyes, he thinks. 

He’d rather think on her likeness to his mother than think of her being with child. He still struggles to see his grandchildren as adults, even though Steffon has a little son and another on the way, and both Aerys and Rhaella are expectant first-time parents.

“You look so well, Grandfather,” Rhaella says, rising up high on her toes to kiss his cheek. “How does Mina fare? Her last letter said that the maesters thought she was carrying twins, so I brought a midwife with us from Sunspear, just in case.”

“You think of everything, little egg,” Aegon says, kissing her brow and turning to her young man. “You’ve been awfully quiet, lad - you’ll have to push in, else you’ll never get a turn to say hello.”

“Your Graces,” Doran Martell says with an immaculate bow and a smile that shows none of the shyness Aegon might have expected. This is only the third or fourth time he’s met the lad since that tourney so long ago, and every time he tries to take Doran’s measure. Every time he fails. That nebulousness paired with Rhaella’s radiant happiness gives Aegon a hope that reminds him of his first visit to Storm’s End, after the dust settled. He’d happened across Rhaelle and Ormund chasing one another through the orchards, and he’d known then that his little egg was not so doomed as he’d feared.

This even littler egg seems as happy as Rhaelle ever did in the first flush of marriage, and Aegon’s heart is easier for it.

“Come, Your Highness,” he says, “let us walk together a while, what say you?”

 

* * *

Steffon dashes forward to greet Rhaella as soon as she’s in the great hall, bending in half to take her hands and kiss her cheeks. They quack at one another like a pair of ducklings, each delighted to see the other after so long, and Aerys simmers across the room like a vat of wildfire, just barely contained.

His wife, pretty Mina with her heavy Tyrell curls and her sharp hazel Redwyne eyes, rests her hands on her massive belly and watches Rhaella with hungry eyes. Rhaelle can understand that, and wishes more than anything that she could save Mina from her pain. 

But not yet. Not until there are boys. No one will rescue Mina until she’s given Aerys a pair of sons, for fear of the realm falling to war. Oh, there is still Jaehaerys between the brat and the throne, but if Shaera decides that it would suit her better to see her son than her brother crowned, Rhaelle would not be surprised to see her sister cast down her  _ great love. _

Away in the sunlight casting blue-white through the stained glass above, Steffon beckons Cassana over, and she and Rhaella twist and turn as if comparing the sizes of their bellies, laughing all the while. They could not be any more different - Rhaella is a little slip of a thing, narrow shoulders and sharp face, and Cassana is as tall as Rhaelle herself, with strong shoulders and full hips and a beautiful, full face. They’re a pretty picture, especially when Steffon raises a hand each above their heads and spins them like dancing dolls. 

Rhaella’s husband, with his unremarkable face and his clever eyes, appears at Mina’s side without Rhaelle noticing him cross the room. He bows neatly, and presents her with something small wrapped in orange silk.

Mina Tyrell smiles for the first time in months. Remarkable, that a Martell should be the cause of it.

“Mother, come say hello to Rhaella,” Steffon says, grinning ear to ear with Rhaella on one arm and Cassana on the other. “Dorne seems to suit her, doesn’t it?”

“Hello, little egg,” Rhaelle says, bending down to kiss Rhaella’s flushed, freckled cheeks. “The sailing didn’t sicken you, did it?”

“Not even a little,” Rhaella says, leaning against Steffon’s shoulder as though they haven’t spent a moment apart. They spent years joined at the hip, Steffon having appointed himself Rhaella’s guardian in the wake of Aerys’ first public outburst, and it does Rhaelle so much good to see them still so close. “I’ve discovered a love of sailing, my lady - Doran and I are thinking of taking a tour of the Free Cities, once the babe is hardy enough to join us.”

“Are you indeed,” Rhaelle says, for once a little sad that her nephew is not close to her son or her niece. In another world, Rhaella would be Jaehaerys’ daughter by Celia Tully, Aerys Shaera’s son by Luthor Tyrell, with some solid Reacher name. Her own Steffon might be a Stark, or a Lannister even. They might all be friends, for being just that little further apart.

Dragonstone would still be Duncan’s, and Daeron, bright, shining Daeron, might still be laughing with her at Shaera’s fussiness. 

She misses Daeron so very much, sometimes. 

No matter that, though - instead she gathers Rhaella under one arm and Cassana under the other, and shoos Steffon away. Aerys’ temper is rising so visibly that he’s gone all red in the face, and it will take both Steffon and young Lannister together to quell him.

Rhaella’s husband is still talking with pretty Mina, his plain face warm and hers bright, and Rhaelle hopes for her niece’s sake that Mina does not prove herself her mother’s daughter.

“Now, my dearest girls,” she says to her niece and her gooddaughter, tugging them away to where Mother and Papa are sitting in pride of place on matching thrones, low before the great monstrosity that looms above them all. “Tell me all your secrets, and we shall laugh about them while your husbands and mine are just out of earshot, and make the menfolk nervous.”

“Menfolk are always nervous when you’re nearby, egg,” Papa says, rising to greet them. “Come, girls, sit here with me, and guard me from all these abominable fools.”

Jaehaerys and Shaera are away in the shadow of the Conqueror’s throne, watching. Always watching. Shaera would be better served to spend her time comforting Aerys’ wife against the tragedy of being matched with that wretched boy, and Jaehaerys with controlling his son, but they will hear ill neither of one another nor of Aerys. They reserve their spleen for Rhaella, who is all the sun of her husband’s banner now, from her ceaseless smile to the swathes of freckles across her bare shoulders.

“Do you know, Aunt Rhaelle,” Rhaella says as she settles easily against Papa’s side, “Mama has not even once looked my way, thank the gods.”

“She will show you the respect that is your due, my love,” Doran Martell says, suddenly standing behind Rhaella’s chair and kissing her hair. Rhaelle must corner him and seek out his secret for moving without detection, for it would be a mightily useful thing to teach Steffon’s noisy little boy. “You are a Princess of Dorne, and a Princess of the Iron Throne - higher than she is yet, and higher than she will be until your grandfather’s faraway final day.”

“When I am dead,” Papa says, glancing sidelong back over his shoulder to the Martell boy with a sharp smile, “I expect you to keep closer to your wife’s side, Your Highness. It may prove more necessary than any of us would like.”

“Here, here,” Mother murmurs, patting Cassana’s hand with a wry little grin. “We shall all stay close, I think, don’t you, sweetling?”

Short of disinheriting Jaehaerys and his line and reinstating Duncan, there is naught Papa can do to keep the monster Aerys is becoming from the throne. There are certain things that others might do, of course, but Papa is trapped by Duncan’s choices and Daeron’s absence.

Rhaella and Cassana are leaning forward around Papa, chatting together about Steffon’s Robert. Cassana is all pride for the boy, but Rhaelle thinks she sees some of her own apprehension about Robert on Rhaella’s face as Cassana details the boy’s adventures - and him only two! Rhaelle loves her son very much, and he chose well when he chose his wife, but the lad they’ve bred is already a noisome little beast. Ormund would have agreed, but-

But she will not think of Ormund. It has been near five years, and it is still utterly unbearable. She feels naked without his warmth at her side, and even little Robert’s shouting and laughter cannot rid Storm’s End of the silences left in Ormund’s wake.

Rhaelle sees more of herself and Ormund in little Rhaella and her prince than she can bear, and hopes against hope that Rhaella never knows his absence. 

 

* * *

“Do you know, darling,” Rhaella says, leaning into the curve of Doran’s arm and relishing the press of his hand to the side of her belly, “I can hardly believe we arrived in time to see the child born. Poor Mina looks fit to burst.”

“Your cousin told me that there is talk of twins,” Doran says, kissing her shoulder and nudging her closer against him. “Twin boys is the hope, I believe.”

“And so it should be,” Rhaella says. “And I would rather it be so, for Mina’s sake.”

Rhaella does not know her goodsister so well as she would like - she knows sweet Elia and sharp Oberyn better, and loves them. She would like to love Mina, but she has not loved anyone she does not trust since she was a little girl. She trusts so few people that her heart is overfull with love she dares not share, and that has made her doubly excited to greet her and Doran’s babe.

“There are an awful lot of rumours flying, my love,” Doran says, his mouth against her ear. He is being terribly daring, holding her so close and being so affectionate here before all of court, but Rhaella loves him for it. He would never be so wild at home, but here it is a defence against Aerys and against her parents, and a defiance against the whispering dowagers who  _ still  _ call foul on Rhaella being sent to Dorne. 

She and Doran will have a daughter Daenerys just to spite the mean old bitches, she’s just decided.

“What sort of rumours?” she asks, watching Aerys watch her. Doran’s mouth drops once more to her shoulder, his teeth nipping just a little at her freckles, and Aerys turns away with a furious scowl.

He’s always felt cheated by Grandfather refusing to allow their marriage, but Rhaella was never so grateful to her grandparents and her aunt and uncle as she has been since she found herself with child. Uncle Duncan, who knows things he has no right in knowing, once told her that her lady mother and lord father would have seen her wed to Aerys when she was just three-and-ten, and she cannot imagine how difficult carrying a child would have been when she was just a child herself.

Doran refused even to kiss her until they were near of age - well, until he was, since she is near two years his senior and he’d been a little shy of her for a time - and has fussed and fretted more than she has herself about the babe. He would never have forced a child on her before she was ready, but Aerys? Well, Rhaella has heard enough of  _ those  _ rumours to sate a lifetime’s curiosity.

“The kind Oberyn will no doubt inspire, once he is old enough,” Doran says, fond and rueful. Oberyn is hardly more than a babe himself, but he is surely the fiercest, wiliest seven year old in all the world, and Doran is equal parts proud and exasperated. “Rumours about your goodsister. About your aunt. About  _ me.” _

Rhaella has seen the way Aunt Rhaelle’s face twists with hatred whenever she looks to Aerys - and to Rhaella’s parents, too - and she has not dared ask about it. She has been away from King’s Landing for long enough that she has missed Aerys growing into the worst of himself, returning from the Water Gardens only twice these past six years. 

Once for the war, and Lord Ormund’s funeral. The second time to see poor Mina shackled to Aerys. At least Rhaella and Doran were permitted to wed at Sunspear, which had made it easy to keep her parents and Aerys away - with Grandmother and Grandfather away from court, the Prince of Dragonstone had to remain, and so Rhaella had had the family she loved on hand, and the family she feared far away.

“Would you wish for those rumours to be true, my love?” Doran asks, resting his chin on her shoulder and watching Aerys with his clever, masked eyes - it is such a delight, teasing out all his layers and hiding places, and Rhaella thinks that it will take a lifetime to puzzle him out completely. She is looking forward to it.

But would she look forward to his being the hand that rids the world of Aerys? 

She would rather it be her own.


End file.
